


Role reversal

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [12]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond gets jealous, Established Relationship, M/M, Q is endeared, Q shags someone for the good of the mission, smut is entirely 00Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: “Slight change of plans,” Bond (rather grudgingly) informs Moneypenny when she contacts him over the comms as he sits - alone - at the bar. “It seems our lady’s tastes aren’t inclined towards blonds - she prefers lanky, dark-haired boffins instead.”

  “Oh...? Oh!“ Bond can almost see Moneypenny’s eyes open comically wide as realisation dawns. “Oh my... how’s your ego?”
-
In which the roles are suddenly reversed and Bond is feeling green.





	

* * *

The mission was supposed to be a fairly straightforward affair - a trip to France to gather information and extract data from a mark’s computer. Bond and Q were to go together, posing as business partners of appropriate wealth and appropriate level of rumoured unsavoury connections in the weapons dealing trade. Bond was supposed to get the information needed and make cosy with the mark’s girlfriend in order to get access to their house during the mark's absence, at which point Q was supposed to come in and do his part of the job.

For the most part, things went well. The fifth day of their mission finds them in an appropriately dimly lit, scandalously expensive restaurant, where they meet up with the mark’s girlfriend. The evening is going well, champagne tinkling into the glasses, the mood sultry enough, the girlfriend’s eyes darkened, lips glossy and parted as she gives small, seductive smiles.

_Except_.

“Slight change of plans,” Bond (rather grudgingly) informs Moneypenny when she contacts him over the comms as he sits - alone - at the bar. “It seems our lady’s tastes aren’t inclined towards blonds - she prefers lanky, dark-haired boffins instead.”

“ _Oh...?_ Oh!“ Bond can almost see Moneypenny’s eyes open comically wide as realisation dawns. “ _Oh my... how’s your ego?”_ she enquires with an almost genuine note of concern, which makes the whole thing worse.

“Fine, thank you,” he says dryly and not entirely honestly. Still, it’s not like he could blame the woman - far from it, having happily been shagging Q for over half a year now, he perfectly understands her desire to do just that. “You have to admit, it’s a compliment about my taste, actually.”

Moneypenny snorts and he can _hear_ her roll her eyes. But he can also hear the unbearable concern in her voice when she speaks.

“ _Well... any changes to the plan?”_ he can’t stand her trying to be delicate.

“No,” he says as flatly as indifferently as he only ever does when he couldn’t be further from indifferent. “Q is willing to take one for the team, shall we say.”

It’s true, they’d had this conversation last night, when the girlfriend’s interest in Q was first quite blatantly demonstrated. Q had shrugged and said he was fine with potentially sleeping with her, should the mission require it. Bond had sat very, very still and stayed very, very expressionless, perched on their shared bed in Q’s hotel room, doing his best to be professional. Q had peered at him - always so perceptive, always knowing him so well - and asked if Bond was fine with it. Bond had carefully replied he was fine only so long as Q was the one absolutely fine with it. Q had rolled his eyes at him and started undressing for bed.

Now, back in the very same room (Bond does have his own, of course, but unprofessionally sneaks over to Q’s every night), Bond is _not fine_.

He watches Q as he gets changed and hides various pieces of equipment in his clothes. Whenever Q happens to glance at him, Bond looks neutral to the point where Q finally becomes convinced something _is_ up, which rather makes Bond rethink the strategy of using his poker face around Q when Q is the one person in his life who knows _exactly_ what it means. Green eyes linger on him as elegant, long fingers smooth down the lapels of his dinner jacket. He looks so very good.

“James...” there’s a twinge of hesitation and Bond pounces to cut it off before it’s too late.

“Q, it’s fine,” he says for the second (third?) time. Their relationship _is_ exclusive, because they both want it. They were casual at first, but both wanted more at a certain point, and the current state of things finds Bond living with Q in Q’s flat for almost three months now.

But sometimes, in the line of work, Bond does sleep with other people.

It’s not nearly as often as he used to do it, and for the most part he manages to avoid it (because he wants to, because he genuinely prefers to have sex with Q rather than anybody else, and also because sex in the line of duty isn't actually always fun and pleasant), but there are instances. And they’re both fine with it because work is work, and sex is an important part of their relationship, but those work-related instances aren’t a problem. Mostly because the sort of sex Bond has with those other people in the line of duty is, well, _different_ , Bond thinks, at the risk of sounding painfully cliché. It doesn’t matter as much. And he doesn't actively _want_ it. (Which probably could raise some moral issues if it weren't for the fact that 00 agents aren't employed to be treated delicately and morally in their line of work.)

So really, it shouldn’t matter now either, should it - since Q is fine with it.

It really, really shouldn’t.

(Except it does.)

“Need any tips?” he asks with a smirk, diverting Q before he can dig deeper.

Q rolls his eyes and scoffs, running a hand through his hair in a way that he knows makes it look unbearably good.

“I haven’t had sex with a woman in a while, but I hardly think things have changed dramatically,” Q is pansexual (whatever that means - Bond prefers to stick to his own, much more sensibly old-fashioned label as bisexual, if he absolutely has to), but with a clear cut preference for men.

“Well, fine. Though remember we aren’t yet completely sure she’s harmless, so maybe pick positions where you can see what her hands are doing,” he teases, because it’s so much easier to be lewd.

Q flips him off and Bond grins, a spark of genuine amusement managing to break through the dense, acidic thing in his chest.

Checking his phone and the very discreet comm link slipped into his ear canal (just for emergencies), Q is ready. He looks at James, green eyes soft for a moment, and he looks so very, terribly gorgeous Bond wants to keep him here, in this room, in this bed, for at least two days. And he certainly doesn’t want to let anyone else touch him.

Q takes two steps to close the distance between them, takes Bond’s face in his hands, and kisses him.

It’s a heady, demanding, _needy_ kiss, and Bond responds to it instantly, wrapping his arms around Q’s waist and holding him close, opening his mouth to let Q in. It’s rushed and a little bit sloppy, but no less perfect for it.

When Q pulls away, he flashes a small smile of satisfaction.

“This should keep me going,” he says playfully, and Bond cannot help but chuckle.

All the same, he’s reluctant to let Q go. He forces himself not to let his arms linger around Q’s waist, not to allow Q to _see_.

“Have fun,” he says, with a very precise mix of playful and dirty, and with one last, only slightly hesitant look, Q is gone.

The minibar isn’t stocked even remotely enough.

Still, three drinks later, Bond manages to work out that the thing he’s feeling is simple, honest to god envy. Oh, he’s _green_ with it, thinking about Q flashing those sultry looks at _her_ , smiling that way at _her_ , letting his elegant fingers touch _her_ , speaking in that beautiful, soft voice to _her_.

Kissing her, seducing her with half-smiles and dirty promises under his eyelashes. Q can be incredibly seductive when he wants, and Bond knows firsthand just how thrilling and irresistible the experience is. And he’s stewing in envy now, thinking about this stranger who is treated to it, who is made the centre of Q’s attention, even if it isn’t honest or in any way genuine.

They’re very likely having sex now, Bond thinks, bleary with jealousy and bitterness. He wishes he could get drunk, but he has to stay sober, just in case something goes wrong in a few hours and Q needs him. But that means he has no choice but to spend those hours thinking about Q taking the woman to her bed, undressing her, smiling seductively, kissing her mouth, her skin.

Bond also knows how good Q is at fucking. He’s _sublime_. Usually he bottoms, but they switch sometimes, and Bond thoroughly enjoys being fucked by Q. He thinks about it, thinks about spreading his legs for him, being carefully fingered open, gasping when Q is fully inside him, giving in so completely to the sinuous rhythm of Q’s hips as he fucks him expertly and luxuriously. He thinks about digging his fingers into Q’s back, about Q kissing him deeply, about being taken care of, about arching his back to take Q all the deeper in, about feeling so unusually full, about throwing his head back when he comes, Q pressing and biting kisses into his neck.

He snaps his eyes open, unaware that he’d let them slide closed. His breathing is slightly laboured and he’s half-hard from thinking about Q having him. He grinds the heel of his hand against his cock to take the edge off the urgency, and gets up from the bed, decisively putting his shot glass away.

Night lingers outside the window, unshakeable. Still hours to go before Q is supposed to make contact, and Bond wonders how is it that Q never is awkward when getting in touch with Bond after he sneaks out of a mark’s bed. Q is dryly sarcastic, sometimes slightly amused, especially if the seduction had been a particularly idiotic affair, Bond listening to marital woes and moulding himself into the reckless fantasy his mark wants to entertain. He knows Q isn’t thrilled about those instances, but he also knows he isn’t bothered. He’s neutral about them.

Bond isn’t _bothered_ , exactly. He’s not _unhappy_. He’s nettled and irked and completely envious. He knows he can be a possessive bastard, and it’s clearly coming out now. It’s plain, viciously intense envy and a stubborn unpleasantness that makes him pace circles round the room. He’s unreasonable and couldn’t care less about it.

And he can’t even have a drink to do something about it.

He opts for a walk outside. Brittany isn’t particularly warm in April, and neither is the seashore, especially at night, but Bond marches along the cold, deserted beach nonetheless. The rhythmic sound of the waves in the dark is a welcome noise to at least partially mute the thoughts in his head, and he takes a steadying breath of the sea air. His expensive shoes will suffer in the wet sand, but he doesn’t particularly give a fuck.

He’s still envious. And he definitely plans to snatch Q into some very thorough sex at the earliest opportunity available.

It starts to rain, and that’s just fucking splendid. He’s feeling spiteful (and clearly masochistic, as he keeps imagining Q in bed with that woman), so he stands in the rain for a while, letting it dampen his suit and drip off his nose before he stalks back to the hotel.

The rest of the night crawls by all too slowly. Q finally gets in touch with him over the comms around 4am and informs him that he managed to download all the necessary files and find the key to the mark’s bank safety deposit box. Bond breathes easier.

They rendezvous at a previously designated spot by the beach, when the dawn breaks in bleary grey across the sky and the morning tide crashes over the sand. That dense, acidic thing in Bond’s chest starts to finally dissipate when he sees Q in the half-gloom, dark hair swept by the cold wind, a familiar look in his eyes. The briny breeze helps to disperse any perfume that might linger when Bond pulls Q into a fast, fierce kiss. Q gives back as good as he gets, just as harshly, just as demandingly, and just as quickly because they have work to do.

“Good morning,” is all Bond drawls, a small smirk on his lips now that Q is with him again.

“Good morning,” Q replies.

They’re professionals (no matter what Tanner says whenever he has to sign off on mission transcripts containing their conversations), so that’s all they say before they get to work. Q sends the files to R via a secure connection, and then he and Bond drive 120 kilometres to a bank and empty their mark’s safety deposit box of some rather incriminating documents. They check into a new hotel to await orders from Mallory and waste no time. Bond’s midnight craving lay dormant while they took care of the mission, but now that it’s done, it returns with full force. He _needs_ Q to fuck him. It’s definitely been too long.

Q smiles and breathes a laugh when Bond unbuttons his shirt, slides the jacket off his shoulders, running his hands down the graceful but still strong arms, smirking as he does so. Q looks at him through his lashes, and Bond bites his lip when he very nearly feels Q downright read his mind, see what Bond wants and needs. He gives in, delighted and covering it up with a smirk when Q starts backing him up towards the bed, deft fingers working on the buttons of Bond’s own shirt.

“How was it?” Bond asks, landing softly on his back, because he can’t stop himself. He always picks at his scabs, he has since he was a boy, and Q always tells him off for it (” _I shan’t have you all pockmarked, love”)_.

“Nice,” Q replies, busy elsewhere with Bond’s belt. Bond’s lips curl in an amused smirk.

“Well, that’s rather lukewarm.”

“Because it _was_ a bit lukewarm,” Q shrugs, like he doesn’t care about the whole thing at all, and perhaps Bond shouldn’t care either. “Oh, I enjoyed myself, sex is sex is sex, and the lady certainly knew her stuff - I dare say she enjoyed herself too - but all the same it was rather like tasting a dish that vaguely resembles what you really want, and working up an appetite for the real thing,” he finishes, the horrible, unbearable minx, his glasses glinting no less saucily than his eyes, dark hair falling over his forehead as he looks at Bond through his eyelashes.

Bond just wants to be fucked by him into oblivion, or roll over and ravish that dirty little minx into speechlessness himself, and the indecision is almost as burning as the overwhelming need for _any_ of the above to fucking start happening. And Christ, is he gorgeous, back arching as he takes his shirt off, revealing those broad shoulders, the softly silhouetted muscles on his chest and torso, the waist leading down to the obscenely narrow hips.

There’s not a mark on him, except one slightly reddened bite near his collarbone, and that just makes Bond growl. He gets a smirk for it, Q lowering himself over him, arms bracketing Bond’s head, dark curls brushing Bond’s forehead, green eyes electric with fun and need.

“Is that so?” Bond drawls in response to Q’s words, so desperate for a good fuck that he doesn’t even care the slight rasp of his voice somewhat ruins the casual effect he was going for.

“Mhm,” Q’s hum is sultry and unhurried as he dips his head to nose at Bond’s neck and kiss just under his ear. He grinds his hips down, their by now almost fully hard cocks rubbing together. “This alright?” he asks, lifting his head and looking at Bond to make sure, and Bond loves him very much for it.

“Oh, by all means,” he grins, bending his knees, feet planted on the mattress to spread his legs around Q’s hips in a way that’s perhaps a little more obscene than strictly necessary. It makes Q grin right back.

Bond stays on his back, which is the way he prefers to be had when he’s being fucked. The prep is thorough and careful, Q taking extra time more for Bond’s pleasure than anything else, because he knows that Bond enjoys Q’s skilful, clever fingers tremendously, the way they find his prostate unerringly. With three of Q’s fingers inside him, Bond lets his head drop back onto the pillow and he moans, legs spreading a little wider when Q does something particularly good, making him simultaneously ache for more and want this to drag on forever.

Soon enough it’s Q’s cock inside him, and Bond arches up, then once again tips his head back, allowing his eyes to flutter closed for a moment, and lets himself _feel_. Feel all of it, feel the annoyingly perfect drag of Q’s length inside him, feel Q’s sharp hipbones, the warmth of his body, the soft kisses that are a loving contrast to Q’s snarky, dour words and smirks.

Bond is getting what he wanted, and he takes it in possessively. He’s wanted to be fucked by Q since the moment it was decided Q would be seducing the mark’s girlfriend, because Bond can be petty enough to want something just because someone else is about to have it. That, and he rather wants to show Q he’s not missing out on anything by staying exclusive with him.

“Alright?” Q huffs out, and Bond’s eyes flicker open, instantly zeroing in on Q’s, on the care and perhaps the slightest, briefest touch of concern there.

“Mmm, more than,” Bond hums with a lazy smile, sliding a hand down to Q’s delicious arse, urging his thrusts deeper, harder. “Ah...” he stutters when Q hits his prostate with a wicked smirk, but the moan he utters is only half cut off.

Somehow, bottoming for Q makes him rather shameless. Oh, he’s never ashamed of sex, he enjoys it in many different ways, but bottoming is not something he does often. And on those rare occasions he did so with other men, he always was rather restrained, perhaps tense; a residual prejudice or other issues he certainly won’t get into because that would be tantamount to doing Psych a favour. But with Q he feels utterly unashamed, much the way Q always is when Bond is the one fucking him, because Q is an unabashed, wanton minx when he wants to, and seeing him like this makes Bond more unrestrained about his own pleasure. And so now he lets himself take it all in and doesn’t bite back his moans, doesn’t hold himself back or make sure he keeps himself in check.

It doesn’t last very long, both of them chasing something they need, but it’s definitely thorough. Afterwards, Bond is content to just lie there and hum, smug and pleased while Q is, for once, the one who has to clean them both up. He smiles, cracking an eye open lazily when Q slides back into bed beside him, slipping into Bond’s embrace when Bond lifts an arm to accommodate him and pull him closer.

“Mm, this was lovely,” Q hums appreciatively, then nudges Bond with a knowing look, because he always knows everything. It would be infuriating if Bond weren’t so delectably shagged out. “Got what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes,” Bond grins, pulls Q into a kiss that’s deep and slow and dirty. Q goes, pliant and loose in Bond’s arms, opening his mouth to let Bond in.

“Good,” he murmurs a while later, once his mouth is no longer otherwise occupied. “But now it’s back to business as usual, and I expect to be thoroughly fucked when we get home.”

Bond smirks, sultry and full of promises, eyes half-lidded in the dim light.

“It will be my pleasure, Quartermaster.”

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Because I enjoy the smell of trope subversion in the morning.
> 
> I was actually supposed to write it for the wonderful 007 Fest Trope Week (one of the trope prompts was role reversal and my brain came up with this), but I never finished it in time. I'm not sure about how this turned out, but it's No Shame November!


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